


Grumpy Diner Fic

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: Community: wip_amnesty, M/M, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-02-04
Updated: 2006-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray, his left leg jittering, leaned his head back against the booth. He watched Fraser's reflection in the window and reviewed the last half hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grumpy Diner Fic

Fraser accompanies Ray to the ice rink to apprehend a pair of ice-dancing drug-runners. Concerned that the perpetrators will flee the building should any warning be given, Fraser and Ray interrupt the _Magic of the Silver Grotto_ show to make the arrests. Well, technically speaking, they _participate_ in the show, but Ray's ice skating technique betrays their unofficial status, and thus begins the chase.

The suspects, discarding their blades, lead the way to the roof, and Ray and Fraser follow, huffing up the stairs. Ray has sustained scrapes to his hands and knees, and his cussing echoes loudly in the cinderblock stairwell. They burst onto the roof in time to see a helicopter hovering, in the process of taking off. Ray opens fire and Fraser, seeing his chance, leaps onto the nearest runner. The chase—well, that isn't important. Suffice it to say, they cross the state line into Indiana before Fraser finally manages to bring down the helicopter and capture the drug-runners. Making a citizen's arrest, he binds them with his lanyard and Sam Browne respectively, and calls the Station for backup. By that time it's 8.39am and Ray is missing.

Fraser spends the entire next day, once he's returned to the so-called Windy City, searching for his partner. Ray isn't at the station or at his apartment. He isn't at the gym. Turnbull has seen no sign of him, nor has Assistant States Attorney Kowalski. He isn't in any of his usual bars or diners or other haunts.

It isn't until 10.03pm that it occurs to Fraser that Ray might still be at the ice rink. Finding Ray's cellphone smashed at the foot of the building is a conclusive clue. (That cellphone cost him $200!)

Ray has spent the whole night trapped on the roof of the rink, with no way down. He has badly bruised his knuckles and shoulder, trying to knock in the roof-access door, to no effect.

When Fraser finally opens the access door and finds Ray, it is starting to snow.

 

**One week later**

Fraser stared at the plastic-coated menu, stained and smeared with several decades of ketchup and mustard, and tried to make sense of the words printed there.

Hammocks, he read. Spittoon. He blinked and wondered whether he was losing his mind. It was well within the realms of possibility.

He glanced across the greasy formica tabletop at Ray, whose head was turned, who was staring determinedly through the window out into the street, his features bleached by harsh sunlight.

Yes, it would appear that Ray was still angry with him, even now. Fraser couldn't blame him, either. He had been entirely at fault.

He sighed, and then tried once more to make sense of the menu.

He was no nearer to comprehension when the waitress came over, flicking her pad and saying, "What'll it be, boys?" Nineteen going on fifty, she seemed to be embarking on a lifetime of taking orders and answering back.

Fraser stole another glance at Ray, and then turned his attention to the young lady. He decided to improvise. Surely all diners had more or less the same selection? "Ah, tea and a chicken sandwich, please. Thank you kindly."

Ray didn't even turn his head. He simply raised two fingers. Two. Double the order. Or perhaps V for victory. Fraser wasn't sure how to take it, but the waitress made a mark on her pad, snapped her gum, and walked off.

In fact, Fraser wasn't sure how to take anything anymore. Ray was angry—that much was clear—and the events of the last forty-two minutes had apparently not changed that.

::

Jesus, Fraser was checking his watch. Did he not want to be here? Because, really, he did not have to be here. He could up and leave anytime. That would be fine, that would be just perfect.

Ray, his left leg jittering, leaned his head back against the booth. He watched Fraser's reflection in the window and reviewed the last half hour.

Fraser had been acting weird ever since the ice rink fiasco, when he'd done his superman thing with the helicopter, and Ray had been dumb enough to get locked on the roof for nearly 24 hours. Fraser had found him before the snow started, thank god, but he'd been _weird_ about it. Distant.

Fine, Ray had thought. Whatever. Back the fuck off. See if I care. But the tension had built and built between them, both so careful and polite it was almost nasty. Ray had been in a black mood anyway, itchy and edgy, dying for an excuse to mix it up with someone—anyone—Fraser being the prime target.

And it drove Ray _crazy_ , because if Fraser would say whatever it was he had to say, everything would be fine. More than fine. Given the last half hour, if Fraser would just open up, Ray would be dancing the two-step with angels on cloud nine.

Because, yeah, there they'd been, almost colliding in the hallway at the station, stepping back awkwardly, no eye contact, and then Fraser had grabbed Ray—well, not grabbed exactly, because that would be unMountie-like and heaven forbid Fraser degrade the _uniform_. Fraser had gripped, yeah, Ray's arm and pulled him sideways into the supply closet. And in the dim light and musty close quarters, Fraser had opened his mouth and said, "Ray, I—" and then stopped. Stopped stunned stymied.

They'd stared at each other for maybe a week, Ray waiting for the words to start again. They'd stared way too long for guys who were supposed to be keeping everything above board and professional. And then, next thing they were locked in each other's arms, hugging and kissing and not quite fighting but not far off. And then, just as suddenly they were fucking. They dug into each other's clothing, both of them fumbling and desperate, trying to be real quiet, careful not to send anything supply-cupboard-like crashing to the floor. Fraser came in Ray's arms in _seconds_ , jism on Ray's wrist and t-shirt, sweat on Fraser's face, and urgent kisses and hot hands, the two of them saying all sorts of things without words (only not saying them or they wouldn't be sitting here now, like this, with a million miles between them). And then being careful not to yell when Fraser fell to his knees and blew Ray until the world was just a background hum, until all there was to know was Fraser's lips and Fraser's tongue.

Someone had knocked then. "Who's in there?" "It's just me," snapped Ray, "Getting—supplies. Get lost", and that had tilted things sideways, taken the sweet out, because all of a sudden the rest of the world was watching, not _really_ there, but in his head so they might as well have been, and sure Fraser was still sucking him and that was great, that was something Ray had been wanting a long time. But the rest of the world was like grit in his shoe, and even as he came he was thinking, hopefully, maybe it wouldn't matter so long as they were _together_ , and that was how it was gonna _be_ from now on. Together. The two of them. At least, that was Ray's story and he was sticking to it.

Except now they were here and Fraser had just looked at his watch. Fuck.

::

Perhaps the way to unravel this was to start at the beginning. Fraser exhaled slowly and hoped order would emerge from his emotional chaos.

Ray was still gazing out the window as though Pulaski Road were the most fascinating place he could imagine. Fraser had to try and get them back on a firmer footing. "Ray," he said.

"What?" Ray sounded detached. He hadn't even shifted his gaze.

Fraser ploughed on, determinedly. "I need to, to apologize."

"Christ." Dear god, Ray looked infuriated, his voice harsh as ice. "Quit it. I don't want to hear it, okay? What's done's done. Live with it."

Fraser frowned. This bitterness, this wasn't like Ray. Certainly he hadn't been himself for the last week, but even so. Was he really still so angry? "I'm sorry," said Fraser again. "It's my fault. I should have—"

Ray growled a warning at him. If he'd been a wolf, his hackles would certainly have risen. He didn't want to discuss it and Fraser thought he should have been able to respect that, but the words had to be said. "You're my partner and I left you there, Ray. I left you there all night. I couldn't find you—"

::

Things went real quiet for a moment. Ray's world tilted right-side up, his jiggling leg relaxed. The ice rink, _that's_ what Fraser was so cut up about. That his Mr. Infallible routine had slipped for a moment. Jeez, the Mountie was dragging Ray into a novelty life-threatening situation every second fucking day, and then the fact that Ray'd gotten stuck on a _roof_ and Fraser was stammering out apologies. Not about the kissing. Not about the sex. About the stupid _chase_ last week.

Ray felt himself thaw. Parts of him he hadn't even known were frozen prickled to life.

He shifted in his seat and looked at Fraser, really looked at him. He stayed leaning back though, faking cool. "It's okay, Fraser, it's fine." He was even _sounding_ warmer. Fraser relaxed an inch or two. "You know why?" Ray continued. "Because we got our man, which is what you're, like, _honor-bound_ to do."

Fraser opened his mouth to correct him, but Ray pre-empted. "Yeah, yeah, maintain the right. Fuck that, Fraser, no offence. We got the slimebags off the streets, making the world a more beautiful and less drug-infested place."

Ray looked at Fraser, maybe looked a little rueful, all the hostility of the last week, the push and pull and _snarl_ evaporating like dew off of a windshield, leaving a clear view of the road ahead.

"I'm fine, okay? I am fine. You found me in the end, and, hell, all things considered? _It was worth it."_

::

The sunlight slanting through the windows brightened. "Still," said Fraser, wanting to say the words that had been burning inside him, "It won't happen again. I won't leave you behind."

Ray nodded, understood. "Doesn't mean I'm jumping every chopper that passes by though," he warned, offering a quick small smile.

Ray was leaning forward now, over the table, his lean body curving like a question mark towards Fraser, who felt something nudge his foot. He automatically assumed it was Diefenbaker, and then remembered that Dief, tired of the taut atmosphere, had had business elsewhere that afternoon. So it must be—it was Ray's foot, his feet, leaning up against Fraser's boots, sending shivers of anticipation up along the back of Fraser's calves.

"Oh," said Fraser involuntarily. He spread his hands on the table to stop from reaching out and touching Ray's cheek. "Well, Ray—"

And then he stopped. The end of that sentence was a cliché, however he phrased it. Where do we go from here? You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. We've only just begun. They all sounded like songs from Turnbull's favorite radio station.

Ray solved the dilemma. He hunched down towards the table, looked up at Fraser through his lashes, and said, "You know what? We should just go. You wanna come back to my place?"

And that was it. Ray threw a twenty on the table and then they were walking out onto Pulaski Road, into the sun together.


End file.
